How to Save a Life
by MegaMan-Atlas
Summary: When Black Jack falls ill with a mysterious affliction, Kiriko may be the only one who can save him. But can the Doctor of Death go against his very nature to help him? Even if he does, could it already be too late? Kiriko/Black Jack
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

The air was cold, brisk and dry.

The night sky was an inky black, the stars darkened by countless lights that decorated the earth, rising up with skyscrapers and streetlights and billboards. The moon but a sliver in the midst of it all, overshadowed by the splendor of the manmade metropolis.

Whatever beauty the city might hold for others was lost on me as I walked briskly down an endless grey sidewalk, past towering black monoliths and crowds of faceless men and women rushing towards unknown destinations. To me it all seemed ugly and displeasing, especially as dozens of cars of every make and colour sped past, creating unwelcome wind that caused my hair and coat to lift and flutter like injured birds.

Opting to ignore these short, irritatingly cold bursts of air, I continued to journey down the street towards the hotel in which I had chosen to stay the night. It wasn't too far now, and I looked forward to the rest that would be found there. The offer of rest in a warm bed after a long day spent walking was only a simple pleasure, but then, that was the greatest kind.

"Kiriko!"

I stopped, hearing the sound of my name. I turned to see who it was that had called for me, several new bursts of automobile-sourced wind whipping my hair over my face as I turned against the traffic.

Standing there was a tall young man, several years my junior, with an unmistakably marred appearance and eyes the colour of fresh blood. His messy, silken hair was half black and half white, a perfect match to the scarred, bi-coloured face below it.

He stood there watching me, the distinctively damaged face bent in a frown, his dark eyebrows furrowed and his plump lips pouted in irritation. He made no move to approach me, and I repaid him in kind, watching the surgeon from a distance.

He paused as if he didn't know what he wanted. "What… What are you doing all the way out here?"

Strange, he asked that question as if he didn't care about the answer.

"Right now?" I answered with a slight smirk, "Going back to my hotel room."

I turned and started back down the sidewalk, continuing onward towards my chosen destination. Even among the many sounds of the city and the innumerable crowds of people around us, I could hear him chasing after me. Singling out his footsteps was easy.

"Black Jack," I addressed, neither stopping nor turning to face my pursuer. "Do you need something from me?"

Without turning to look at him, I could only guess how he had reacted to my awareness that he was following me. I felt it likely that I had caught him off-guard, as he was silent for several moments before finally responding to my inquiry.

"So, you're not here about a patient?" Black Jack asked.

I liked the way his voice sounded. It was deep, with a smooth but commanding quality to it. It was a voice that easily brought respect and trust from his patients.

What bothered me was how hard he seemed to be breathing. Had he been running?

"Not this time," I answered. "Honestly, I have no interest in anything at the moment except a good night's sleep."

Black Jack apparently was not convinced by this, as he continued to follow me all the way to the towering marble hotel where I was staying, through the carved, illuminated white doors, and into the lobby.

The quiet within was a welcome contrast to the loud, bustling city outside the thick white-and-silver walls. I took a moment to enjoy this, and the enjoyable clean smell in the air.

The carpet was deep red and patterned with intricate gold designs. Lush emerald plants in silver containers decorated the room, while various paintings of all genre interrupted the wall at strategic intervals, combining with the carved, Romantic-styled pillars to give the lobby an interestingly aesthetic feel.

Having taken it in, I turned and looked at Black Jack, who seemed utterly uninterested in the extravagant appearance of the hotel lobby. No surprise; the surgeon was one used to comforts and luxury such as these, despite the humble appearance of his actual home.

"You must really want something." I commented, getting a bit irritated with my shadow. "What is it, Black Jack?"

A mocking smirk crossed my lips and I tilted my body, placing one white-gloved hand upon my hip and gesturing with the other towards the silver doors of one of the elevators.

"Did you wish to join me up in my room?" I teased.

Black Jack seemed taken aback by the comment, as could be seen in his widened eyes and the generous step back he took the moment the last word left my lips. I grinned at his stunned reaction; apparently I had said something so surprising that it had even managed to catch Black Jack off-guard.

"Er, no thank you." He responded, collecting himself. "I think that's one offer I'll have to pass up."

"Then," I said, ceasing to strike the faux inviting pose, "What exactly _do_ you want, Black Jack?"

He hesitated uncharacteristically to reply, but it didn't seem like nervousness or anxiety was the cause. As I leaned closer to look at his face, I could see that there was a certain strange, glazed look in his crimson eyes, a look that immediately caused me, as a doctor, to become alerted.

"Hmm… That's strange," I muttered aloud, cutting Black Jack off before he had the chance to speak.

I reached out and took hold of his face, keeping him from turning away from me. He cried out in protest and tried to pull away, but I forcefully held him in place, reached into my pocket, and swiftly drew out a small torch, flicking it on as I brought it up to his eyes.

Shining the torch light in his eyes one after the other, I could easily see something was wrong with him. His eyes were dull and lacked their intense energy. His pupils were slow to shrink in response to the light assaulting them.

"Is this what you wanted from me?" I asked him simply.

"I don't think it's that bad," Black Jack replied in irritation, an insufferable amount of arrogance tingeing his voice.

Once again he tried to escape my grasp, and now succeeded in breaking my hold on him, but I was quick to reclaim him, this time finding a much firmer hold where his jaw connected to his neck, my fingers digging into his tanned skin. Unfazed by his attempt, I continued to examine him, right in the middle of the hotel lobby.

Pocketing the torch, I took Black Jack's wrist firmly in my newly-freed hand and wrapped my fingers securely around it, placing two of them upon the metacarpal artery to feel for his pulse.

"Black Jack, your eyes are glazed and you've got the beginnings of a fever," I hissed. "And your pulse is weak! How can you, as a doctor, possibly say that isn't much?"

He looked at me without saying a word, but I knew that in spite of his resistance, his dulled ruby eyes were crying for help. I knew that there was simply no possibility that a man who valued life as much as Black Jack could possibly want to lose it without even trying to see if he could be cured, especially after all the times he'd fought me so viciously to try and preserve a patient's life, even in cases when he knew it was useless. This was a man who loved and desired life. Why would he try to keep me from finding out?

"We've got to get you to a hospital," I said firmly. "_Now_."

"Kiriko," Black Jack started. "Okay, look. There's… something wrong."

"That's obvious enough," I snorted. What, was he not following or something?

"No, listen!" Black Jack exclaimed, "I think I've picked up a—"

Suddenly, he stopped speaking, closed his eyes tightly and gave a loud, painful cry.

His breathing accelerated and he grabbed fistfuls of his own black-and-white hair so hard that his knuckles went white. His muscles went tense and his body bent over partially as he tried to endure the pain. More cries were quick to follow the first, and I moved closer to him to try and get a handle on the situation.

"Shh!" I hushed him, putting my hands on his shoulders. "Calm down, Black Jack, you'll only make it worse!"

He ignored me, continuing to moan and cry out in anguish, throwing his head back. He began to thrash aimlessly, his arms swiping at the air, sometimes coming in contact with my face or torso. His chest rose and fell rapidly with heavy, irregular breaths. His face was now wet with glistening sweat, and his crow-black clothes were becoming damp with the salty fluid.

I was vaguely aware of other hotel patrons stopping and staring.

"Where does it hurt?" I cried, trying to take control of the situation. "Black Jack, calm down!"

Black Jack screamed, letting loose the most horrible, piercing cry I had ever heard. Blood trickled from his open mouth, dripping down his chin.

I stepped back in horror. I had never seen anything quite like this before in my life. Black Jack was in so much agony he couldn't bear it. He was bleeding internally, his pulse was thready and weak, his pupils were slow to change, his eyes were glazed over in sickness, and he was in excessive pain and I didn't even know where.

"Someone call an ambulance, for the love of God!" I roared, my eyes darting about the room at those who had stopped to stare.

Several of them went immediately for their cell phones as if from a broken trance as I lunged towards Black Jack and took him quickly into my arms, restraining him with a tight embrace.

The renegade surgeon looked at me with wide eyes, his pupils contracted, mouth gaping as he gasped for air, caught between moans and screams of pain. His hands found their way to my coat and his fingers began to dig in furiously as he tried desperately to lessen his pain in any way he could, barely able to think past a wild, animal instinct that drove him to madly seek relief.

I held him tightly against myself, whispering softly to him, all the while wishing I had some way to relieve his pain, some way to quell his suffering and silence his horrible screams.

I realized, bitterly, that I had one such device with me even now, but I absolutely refused to use it. Not yet, not when I didn't even know if Black Jack was really fated to die this way. Had he been anyone else I might already have done it, but…

There was something about Black Jack. Something that made me rue the idea of ever meeting the necessity to euthanize him, even the very thought of seeing the day of his death. Something that I couldn't explain, even as I stood there holding him like a child as he suffered this brutal internal assault.

Finally, the painful attack subsided, and Black Jack fell silent, his energy spent. The entire weight of his body fell suddenly upon me as he went limp, and I caught him quickly, lifting him up into my arms like a man carrying his swooned princess in an old, cheesy movie, my arms supporting his upper back and his legs at the knee as I held him before my chest.

Outside, I could hear the plaintive wail of sirens rapidly growing louder and louder. The paramedics would be here momentarily, I acknowledged with relief, and so I carefully took my "swooned princess" outside to meet them.

"What is wrong with you, Black Jack…?" I whispered softly, watching as red and blue lights filled the city night air.

As soon as they arrived, I helped them to carefully load Black Jack onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, stopping once he was inside to wipe the blood from his mouth with the edge of my scarf before stepping back to allow the paramedics to work.

I sat down within the ambulance and watched as the paramedics placed an oxygen mask over Black Jack's nose and mouth and connected him to the EKG machine beside him, listening to the slow, irregular beeps that began to sound with each beat of the unconscious surgeon's heart.

Outside and all around, the faceless crowds kept on walking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

When Black Jack finally awoke, I was standing there to greet him. Perhaps not the warmest or most desirable thing to wake up to, but I would have to do.

"Black Jack," I greeted. "Good morning."

He blinked at length and looked around at all the equipment he was now connected to via a small network of thin wires and clear tubes. Lying there, he looked far weaker and more helpless than I had ever seen him before; even the dark brown graft on his face turned an unhealthy pale.

It felt so strange, so wrong to see him like that. It made me feel just as vulnerable as he had become, as if I was watching the invincible fall. This was something I never could have expected, and just like in the hotel lobby, I felt this inexplicable fear, this _dread_ of seeing Black Jack die.

I pulled a small metal chair up by his bed and sat down, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees and my chin upon the backs of my hands, refocusing on the issue at hand.

"Tell me, Black Jack. What's wrong with you?" I asked. "What are your symptoms, and do you already have a diagnosis?"

Black Jack let his head sink into his pillow, his dulled eyes barely focused as he stared up at the tiled white ceiling above.

"I haven't been able to figure out exactly what's wrong," He said, his deep, silky voice sounding weak and breathy. "My vision is blurry, and I've felt weak and tired lately. The other day I was working in my office, and when I tried to stand, I collapsed."

I nodded silently in acknowledgement, drawing out a pen and pad of paper I'd brought with me. I began to scrawl down his symptoms as he relayed them to me, all the while still trying to make myself think of him as only a patient, and not as… Black Jack.

"I've been having trouble swallowing, and I've had a fluctuating fever." Black Jack continued. "But then, worse than all of that is the attacks…"

"Attacks?" I asked, interjecting. "Like the one you had earlier?"

Black Jack nodded in response. "It feels like my body's being torn apart at the seams. My chest and torso hurt uncontrollably, and sometimes I feel weak. And I can't figure out why!"

He sounded frustrated as he said the last few words, gritting his teeth at his lack of success in his self-diagnosis. But through the rest of the words, his pain could be heard in his voice, the agony he'd felt seeping into his speech.

His choice of wording had been interesting, but I was hardly in a frame of mind to think about that. While part of my mind was busy comparing his symptoms to the countless poisons I knew, the rest was still struggling to comprehend why I would care so much about Black Jack's fate. Why was he different from anyone else? Because of our friendship, our rivalry? Why would any of that matter to me?

If Black Jack was destined to die, then he would die. No one can contest the will of God, even if they gave everything they had to try. A new question arose in my mind then, and as it did, I wondered if Black Jack had finally learned that same lesson, perhaps from our encounter on Icarus Island.

Perhaps this was the will of God. Perhaps Black Jack had realized that fact.

"Black Jack," I asked slowly. "Why did you come to _me_? Unless… You want me to euthanize you?"

The surgeon turned away, his expression thoughtful.

"No, I don't," He said.

As if I had needed to ask that question. Stubborn ass would never learn; he'd keep fighting until the bitterest of ends, giving everything he had, even if he was truly contesting the will of God.

"Then why exactly _did_ you seek me out?" I asked. "Something about what you wanted to tell me back at the hotel?"

"Well…" Black Jack started. "I don't think this is natural."

I raised a thoughtful eyebrow. "So, you think this is poison." I stated, as an observation rather than a question.

"I don't know," Black Jack said. "But the symptoms don't match any disease I know, and I knew that if it was some sort of poison, you would be the man to ask."

I made a few more notes on the sheet before standing up, pushing back the chair and looking down upon my rather unique fellow doctor.

"Ah, using me for my knowledge of toxicology," I joked rather humorlessly. "Well, don't worry," I assured him, giving him a joyless smile, "If it is poison, I'll know."

I had, of course, already planned on personally examining Black Jack, though technically without consent from the hospital. Not that it mattered to me; as long as I had my patient's consent, I had no regard for the rules and regulations of mere hospitals. None of them would exactly be pleased with the service my patients usually wanted administered anyway.

Because I had intended in advance to perform this examination, I had already gone back to my room in the hotel and retrieved the necessary tools, all of them stored in a black case by the chair I had just been sitting in. Black Jack eyed the case as I picked it up and set it upon the seat of the chair, relaxing only once it was completely open and he could see that it contained only standard medical supplies.

"I only euthanize people who pay me to do so," I said, smirking.

Black Jack said nothing in response, seeming slightly embarrassed. He lay still as I drew out a stethoscope and watched me with interest as I put it on and lifted up the end.

I pulled back the thin white sheet that covered him, revealing a chest clothed only in a thin, meager, robin's-egg-blue hospital robe. One stitched arm lay flat by his side, while the other rested lightly on his chest, rising and falling slowly with each shallow breath. Why, I wondered, did I find his chest to be beautiful?

Ignoring the thought, I moved his hand aside, and placed the tip of the stethoscope on his chest to listen. Black Jack's heart sounded strained and weak, as if trying to take on too much all on its own, beating more quickly than normally. I frowned with concern at this and moved the stethoscope to listen to his lungs, pulling the sheet further down as I did.

"Take a deep breath and hold it," I instructed.

Black Jack did so, drawing in a deep breath and waiting several seconds until I told him to release it.

"Now, take a few more," I said. "Slowly."

He seemed to be having increasing difficulty breathing. He wheezed slightly when he breathed, but I could hear no blockage or fluid in his lungs, and they had no trouble expanding once air flowed into them. It was clear that his respiratory difficulties were caused by something other than physical damage to the lungs.

Taking the earpieces out of my ears and putting the stethoscope around my neck, I made a few more notes on the writing pad and asked Black Jack another question.

"When you were having that attack back at the hotel, a little blood came out of your mouth. Does that happen often? And do you know where it came from?"

Black Jack looked surprised at this, as if he hadn't realized that it had happened.

"No, that's never happened before," He replied, "I've never spat up blood."

"That means you're getting worse," I grumbled, before asking, "What about fainting? You said you'd collapsed once before, but ever during an attack?"

Black Jack shook his head. After scribbling this information down on the writing pad, I proceeded to check Black Jack's blood pressure. It was low, as I had expected, and I wondered if a blood transfusion might be necessary to prevent him from going into shock. Although the problem was in the weakness in his heart, if more blood were put into him, it would help to stave off shock and possibly lessen the likeliness of death.

I put the stethoscope and sphygmomanometer back into their slots in the briefcase, then picked up the writing pad once more and scrawled down his blood pressure and my observations concerning the subject.

When I looked back up at Black Jack, I saw a trail of deep crimson running from his lips down his chin, dripping off onto his robe and leaving a small, circular stain. Black Jack hardly seemed to notice, as he barely even made a move to wipe it away, but the blood was of great concern to me. It was, of course, coming from somewhere inside Black Jack's body… But the question was, where?

Since it was coming out through his mouth, it was possible that it was from internal bleeding in his stomach or throat, and although it could just as easily be a small matter from minor veins, I couldn't stop considering the possibility that it might be from a major artery in Black Jack's neck or abdomen. He didn't seem to bleeding too excessively, at least not yet, but it was still a significant cause for concern.

I took a tissue from a small, brightly-coloured cardboard box set out on the table by Black Jack's bed, and gently wiped off the blood.

"How long exactly have you been suffering from this?" I asked.

"The first symptoms appeared approximately five days ago," Black Jack answered, his voice cracking pitifully halfway through. "Since then, they've gotten worse very quickly."

His condition had come to spitting blood and fainting within just five days… Whatever this was, it was serious, and it was progressing alarmingly fast.

I continued to examine him, but found no more clues as to what might be wrong. I racked my mind for possible solutions, any kind of poison or toxin I knew that might match the symptoms, but I still came up with nothing.

I sat down and reviewed my notes, flipping through the small writing pad and scanning over scrawled handwriting to see if I might have missed something.

"I haven't eaten anything unusual," Black Jack offered, rather out of the blue, "And it's been a while since I was last to anywhere exotic."

"You haven't been out of the country at all?" I asked.

"Not for several months," Black Jack said. "I think it's a record for me." He joked.

I gave a short nod, hardly in a laughing mood, and added these facts to the list.

"Well," I said, "I'm going to have to do a little research to figure this one out. I'll be back in a few hours, alright?"

"Alright," Black Jack answered.

He breathed a sigh and allowed his muscles to relax, settling back into his bed. His eyes slowly closed as he began to drift off to sleep, the one place where his pain could not reach him. I looked at him with sympathy, gripping the handle of my briefcase tightly in anxiety and frustration as I lifted it up.

I was the one people called "The Bringer of Death". When a patient was suffering, I was the one who came to give them relief, the end to their pain and misery that they so longed for. I brought death to those that could not find it, not prolonged life.

Then again, I chided myself, who was really to say if I was trying to prolong Black Jack's life? Who, after all, can truly say that they know the will of God?

If Black Jack was truly fated to die, then he would die. But if he was to live… Then in the end, one way or another, I would figure out how to save a life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

.**  
**

It was pleasantly quiet in the hotel room, far above the noise and bustle of the city. The room itself was beautiful, and any other time it would have made a perfect place to just lay back and relax for a while. But now, it brought me no enjoyment, no sense of ease or rest.

Open books were laid out all around me; small scraps of paper scattered throughout their pages to mark notable information. I went from one book to another, flipping through them rapidly in turn, sometimes checking two or more at the same time.

But my searching brought nothing, and in spite of all my best efforts, exhausting all my books and my knowledge, I simply could not seem to find the answers I sought. Certain poisons matched certain symptoms, but not others. Other toxins would cause most of the symptoms, but added other symptoms that Black Jack was not experiencing. Nothing added up.

Either this was a combination of poisons, or something that I did not know, something not listed in any of the toxicology books. But was I dealing with an undiscovered toxin, or a manmade killer?

I closed the books, one by one, frustrated with my lack of success. What could possibly be wrong with Black Jack? Something had to be causing this, but what?

Perhaps, I thought, I was going about this the wrong way. Instead of trying to figure out what poison affected him based exclusively on symptoms, I should try a different approach.

I stood up and, stepping carefully and deliberately over the spread-out books, made my way toward the door. Still fully dressed, I had no need to pause on my way out except to lock the room door behind myself.

Briskly, I made my way to the hotel's exit, leaving once more through the spectacular, strobe-lit doors.

This time, I had a more distant destination in mind, and that only added to the urgency. Since I had lacked the foresight to bring my motorcycle on this particular expedition, to cut down on traveling time, I'd had to stop in the city to rent a new one.

Now, I sped furiously through the darkness towards a familiar, but all the same peculiar wooden house, set questionably close to the edge of a cliff. This was the only place I could think of to try and search for clues as to the exact identity of the poison.

I would be looking for something, _anything_ that could have served to get the poison into Black Jack's body. The problem was, so many things could be that one thing: tainted or poisoned food, contaminated water, a needle, medicine… Fortunately, at least, there happened to be one clue there at the house that might be able to point me in the right direction.

The cold night air whizzed past as I tore up the hill, my hair and coat whipping wildly around me. The engine roared as I sped up, the motorcycle now easily flying past 120kph. Hopefully, I thought bitterly, there wouldn't be any police in the area to give me trouble for my rather reckless speeding.

When finally I reached the top, I pushed down hard on the brakes and turned the front of the vehicle sharply, literally screeching to a halt. The sound was awful and I was completely aware of how foolish and dangerous such a stunt was, but now was not the time for caution. Not while Black Jack was depending on me.

It was so strange… Why did Black Jack matter to me so much? I had never behaved this way before in my life, so why was I acting so strangely now? Why did I feel so strongly that he should live when it went against everything that made me the Doctor of Death?

I led my motorcycle to the front porch, putting up the kickstand before going up to the door and knocking. As I waited for an answer, increasing volume and urgency as the precious seconds passed, I couldn't help but wonder the same question, yet again. Why? Why did it matter?

I wanted to think that it was just my desire to help my patients, or perhaps a certain _curiosity_. Unlike the others I'd treated, Black Jack had come to me seeking not death, but life. The patients I'd euthanized before were those who had exhausted all their options. Few came directly to me seeking solace; my patients had already realized that death was their only remaining option. And here, that snide Black Jack had decided that I could save him. Although his request was so unique, I'd taken it, and I told myself it was because I wanted to help others. Yet, that didn't seem to be the case.

So I tried to convince myself that it was just gratitude, plain and simple. After all, he had done a lot for me, and for my sister as well. Besides that, I still felt I owed him for saving me when I was shot by a thug after our little tangle with the Daedalus group. I had told him then to leave me to die, but he refused, and now, here I was.

Black Jack hadn't been obligated to save me. He could just as easily have left me as I'd told him to, preventing me from going on to euthanize more patients. I may not have held life in the same regard he did, but I knew that it was something he valued more than anything in the world, and he had put his own on the line to keep me from losing mine. Sacrifice is relative, and I owed Black Jack a great debt for the sacrifice he was willing to make for me, even after we'd butted heads so many times in the past.

That had to be it. Why else would it matter to me?

The door opened then, interrupting my thoughts, and a tired Pinoco answered the door, still dressed in a simple pink nightgown, rubbing sleepily at her half-closed eyes.

"Hullo…?" She muttered, rather listlessly.

"Excuse me, Pinoco," I said simply, "I need to look around."

"Oh!" She exclaimed, shaking off a degree of her sleepiness. "The failed assassin! What are you doing here?"

"Pinoco," I asked directly, ignoring what I supposed was an insult, "Have you felt sick lately? Had a fever or blurry vision, or felt dizzy upon standing?"

Pinoco looked confused at this. "No, not at all, but the Doc'sh been kinda sick… Why?"

"There's no time to explain," I said urgently, using my tone to get across my point, "This concerns Black Jack, and I need to get in."

I pushed past her then, disregarding manners as I endeavored to start my investigation without delay and avoid an onslaught of questions from the loud, meddling young girl. Ignoring Pinoco's protests and the dog--Largo, I think it was--following at my heels, I made a beeline to the kitchen to begin my search.

I began to check over the entire room for anything that might have served as a vessel. Since Pinoco was not ill, I could safely rule out poison in the food or in the tap water, which meant that I was looking for something that only Black Jack would use or consume.

"Pinoco," I addressed, my tone urgent still. "Does Black Jack like any foods that you don't? Has he consumed any alcohol lately? Or taken medicine?"

"H-hey, shlow down!" She exclaimed. "Ish Doc okay? Jusht how shick is he?"

"_Extremely_ sick!" I snapped impatiently in response, looming over the undersized girl. "Now answer my questions!"

She bit her lip, her features dogged with worry and concern. "He, um…" She started nervously, "He likesh peppersh and I don't, but we don't have any. He'sh got shome wine, though, and lately he'sh been takin' shleeping pills… Any of that help?"

"Sleeping pills?" I echoed, raising my eyebrow.

"Um, yeah," Pinoco replied, rubbing her upper arm nervously. "He'sh been having twouble getting to shleep 'coz he'sh got so much work to do, so he'sh been taking shleeping pills. I think the stwess is getting to him, my poor…"

"Bring them to me, immediately!" I demanded.

"Acchonburike!" She yelped, before nodding vigorously and darting off to carry out my bidding, clearly understanding how urgent this was. I watched as she ran down the hall, followed by her ever-faithful canine companion, and wondered if this might be the solution.

I could only hope so, for it was, at the moment, my only lead. If he really was taking sleeping pills, Black Jack wouldn't be drinking wine, lest the pills and alcohol react.

"Here you go," Pinoco offered unusually timidly, holding up the bottle of pills.

A prescription, I noted, and though it seemed legitimate, something seemed off about the name of the medicine, apparently a brand I'd never heard of before. I pressed down on the lid and unscrewed the cap, tilting the bottle and letting a few of the pills drop out onto my palm to examine them more closely. There was nothing visibly wrong with them, but something about them just didn't sit right with me.

I looked again at the label, raising an eyebrow at the name of the doctor who'd prescribed it. Goodman? Why did that name sound strangely familiar? Did this hold some key to the solution?

Gripping the bottle tightly in my hand, I began once more to question Pinoco.

"Pinoco, this is extremely important: Who is Dr. Goodman?"

Pinoco cocked her head slightly to one side, staring blankly at me in confusion. She didn't even need to say anything after that gesture, not that it stopped her.

"Dr. Goodman?" She echoed, "I don't know, who _is_ that? Where did you get that name from? Ish he somebody Doc knowsh?"

"I don't know," I answered, hoping she'd shut up before this went further, "Try this: where did Black Jack get this prescription?"

"Um… I don't weally know," She answered, twiddling her fingers. "Shince he'sh a shurgeon, and unlicensed at that, he couldn't pweshcribe anything for hish shleep, sho he went to thish hoshpital out in town. The doctor that saw him wash weally weird… He had this cweepy gwin."

"A creepy grin? Do you remember anything else about him?"

Pinoco shook her head. "Not weally," She said, "I mean, nothing like a face, jusht… The way he wash acting. He wash weally _eager_, and I didn't like the way he wash lookin' at the Doc. 'Shpecially when he checked out hish head."

"His head?" I echoed.

"Yeah, he ran some kinda scan on him… But, I'm not really sure what it wash he did. Sheemed like a lot to do just for a little inshomnia…"

"About how long ago was that?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Pinoco looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "It was Tueshday, sho… About a week ago, I think."

It added up. By the way the evidence pointed, it seemed I had already pinpointed the source of Black Jack's strange illness. Now, I could only hope it wasn't too late.

"Pinoco, you've been a big help; I'm sure Black Jack will thank you," I said quickly, and left without another word.

.

.

.

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_A/N: Pinoco's speech pattern was drawn from the English translation of the manga, not from any particular version of the shows or movies. Also, it's worth noting that 'Acchonburike' is Pinoco's unique, pretty much meaningless exclamation. The subtitles for the movies replaced it with 'Omigewdness'._

Also, Pinoco can be spelled with a 'C' or a 'K'.


End file.
